


wouldn't change a thing ('cause we were kings)

by trustingno1



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Roger," he replies, bouncing a ball on his racquet, "You haven't broken my serve in twenty years." </p>
<p>(future!fic, ca. the 2030s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	wouldn't change a thing ('cause we were kings)

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting some older fics to AO3. Originally posted 10.07.2009
> 
> In the vein of the Legends' matches. Angst-free. Title from Wes Carr's _When We Were Kings._

_Melbourne, Australia_

_ca. 2030_

It's a place he's been before - many, _many_ times (twenty-six, he thinks, and it's that encyclopaedic knowledge of tennis trivia that makes him a good part-time commentator) - waiting, silently, in a hallway with Roger Federer.

They don't carry quite as much as they used to - now, just two racquets and a water bottle - and there are no cameras focused on them, no microphones waiting, and there's none of the pressure of twenty years ago.

He bounces on the balls of his feet as they wait - he's still more restless than Roger, still has nervous energy to _burn_ , and Roger still watches him out of the corner of his eye.

"It's been a while, Andy," Roger eventually say, playing, idly, with the bag strap on his shoulder.

Andy tugs the bill of his cap lower, turns his head to the side to speak over his shoulder. "You worried?" he deadpans, and Roger laughs.

*

A respectable crowd stays for their match - out of curiosity - laziness - to make the most out of their tickets - and they still cheer a little louder for Roger, but that stopped mattering to either of them years ago.

They don't have assigned ends, now, but Andy takes the far one - for old time's sake.

*

They're standing either side of the net, stretching - a little unnecessarily - when Roger motions for Andy to call, and he calls heads.

He pumps his fist in celebration, elects to serve, and Roger's gaze is amused.

*

The warm up is surprisingly easy - a heavily choreographed dance they both remember; Andy lifts an index finger slightly, and Roger responds immediately with a lob that falls intentionally short. Andy goes through the motions of a gentle smash, and Roger gets to it easily, sets him up again.

*

When Andy steps up to serve, he bounces the ball, glances across the net at the greatest tennis player he's ever known - and the crowd falls silent so quickly that he looks up, concerned.

They laugh, and after a beat, he laughs too, and even Roger straightens up, brushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"OK," Andy says, holding up the ball - showing it to the crowd, to Roger. "I'm going to _serve_ now."

*

They agreed, earlier, watching the first men's semi in the upstairs lounge, to turn the first point into a longer rally - ease themselves, the crowd, back into it. So when Andy serves (and it's still easily over 100mph) he's not expecting the short return; he runs for it - surprisingly _fast_ , for a man of fifty - and misses; he turns to Roger, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"What the _hell_?"

Roger shrugs, laughing a little helplessly. "I'm sorry!" he protests, "It's just-" he gestures between them, " _instinct_ ," and Andy can only shake his head (but he's laughing too).

*

At 0-30, Roger calls to him, "Are you nervous?"

"Roger," he replies, bouncing a ball on his racquet, "You haven't broken my serve in twenty years."

"We haven't played for _nineteen_ ," Roger points out, reasonably, and Andy taps his ear, shrugging - pretends he can't hear - and Roger waves a hand at him.

*

His first serve at 0-40 is long, by a few feet, and Roger comes in closer, up to the service line, motions to it with his racquet head - nods at Andy mock-encouragingly.

It loses him the game, but he serves the next ball at Roger's head.

*

"How are you holding up, old man?" Andy asks, patting the small of Roger's back, briefly, as they change ends and Roger knocks his hand away, but they're both grinning.

*

Roger aces him, and he stands there, mock-stunned, for a moment, and the crowd - warming to this, to _them_ \- laughs.

Roger holds - and while he's taking this a little more seriously than Andy, two kids - neither of whom play tennis - have softened him, slightly tempered his arrogance; his priorities aren't the same, and he's far less intense.

As he passes the balls back to Andy, he says, straight-faced, "Could be a fast match," and it's good-humoured in a way he rarely used to let people see.

*

Andy bounces the ball, eyes trained on Roger. "This is for Wimbledon," he tosses the ball, " _2004_ ," he grunts, and it's an ace, and as Roger walks over to ad court, he gives Andy an amused, sidelong look.

"Wimbledon," and his ball toss is still pretty _damn_ good, " _2005_."

At 30-0, "US Open ... _2006_ ," and he when takes the game (Wimbledon 2009), he nods, decisively, at Roger - _game on_ \- and Roger laughs.

"You really remember every time I beat you?" he asks, as they're changing ends.

The both turn, and they're walking backwards slowly as Andy wipes his face with his shirt before replying, sarcastically, "Like you don't," and Roger's smile is sheepish.

*

He lets Roger's serve go, shakes his head immediately, because he never learned to stop calling points, but the chair ump calls it good.

"What?" he says, loudly, and the ump clears his throat.

"Fifteen-love."

"Are you _blind?_ " Andy yells, approaching the chair, but he's laughing, and the ump tries not to smile - ignores him - and Andy tosses his racquet to the ground. "This is _bullshit_ ," he adds, before motioning to Roger, who's moved over for the second point. "Back me up, here."

Roger holds his gaze for as long as possible, before serving to an empty court, and Andy doesn't move.

"I wasn't ready!" he protests, over the applause, and the ump shrugs.

"You should've said," he says, mildly, "Thirty-love," and Andy throws his head back and laughs.

*

Roger holds, again, and as he's pocketing a couple of balls, Andy says, loud enough for him to hear, "Son of a _bitch_."

"Go Nadal!" someone behind him cries, and Andy turns, whacks the ball in his hand into the crowd.

"That wasn't funny twenty _years_ ago," he yells back, and Roger's fiddling with his strings to hide his laughter.

*

They play a short deuce, and Andy comes off better - uses a one-handed backhand he's still not great at, a shot he rarely used against Roger when it mattered.

*

Roger has two match points at 5-4, and he's had worse losses to him.

Andy saves the first one - is bested by a passing shot that used to torment him on the second - but he ducks his head and laughs (he's been here _so many times_ before).

He tosses his racquet to the side, climbs over the net in an exaggeratedly careful way, and Roger's just watching him; he hugs Roger - and it's none of the bitterness of twenty years ago - and Roger's arm bands around his waist, fingers clutching at his sweaty shirt.

"Good game," Andy murmurs, breathlessly, into his ear, and Roger smiles.

"You too," he replies, patting Andy's back.

Andy pulls back, one arm still around Roger's shoulders. "Now help me off the court," he jokes, and Roger laughs. "By the way," Andy adds, conversationally, "I still hate you, you fucker," but the applause is still going and Roger's shaking with laughter, and he can't keep a straight face for long.  
   
  
  



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